


Oh, Crumpets

by turquoise_ghost



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-18
Updated: 2011-07-18
Packaged: 2017-10-21 12:48:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/225327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turquoise_ghost/pseuds/turquoise_ghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A rather random piece of smut in which Sherlock and John eat crumpets and have sex (although not at the same time)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh, Crumpets

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the prompt "Once upon a time, Sherlock and John were eating crumpets"

Sherlock and John were eating crumpets.

John leaned back contentedly, feeling the antique wood of the kitchen chair press against his back as he spread strawberry jam across his second crumpet.

“This makes a nice change!” he said, smiling across at Sherlock, who was watching him eat. “We spend so much time looking at menus I’d almost forgotten what it was like to make something”.

“You didn’t make them” replied Sherlock, “you stuck them in the toaster, that’s hardly advanced cooking skills”. John laughed at him, “more advanced than yours!”

Sherlock accepted the insult with a brief smile that lit up his eyes, before sliding his chair away from the table and sweeping across the room to fuss with various stacks of paper before flipping open John’s laptop. Well, it was more ‘their’ laptop now, as John had given up his feeble protests months ago.

In fact, John thought, most of the items in their flat could probably be described as ‘theirs’ these days. Even the beds had become a shared entity, something which still, even after nearly half a year, made John feel a hot flush across his cheeks when he thought about it. Not a flush of embarrassment (although there had been a fair amount of that in the beginning), but of desire for the gorgeous man who had been his flatmate, and then his friend, and then more.

Sherlock hadn’t actually eaten anything at breakfast, and John knew him well enough to pick up on the signs of a complex case.

Lestrade had rung yesterday evening and called Sherlock away to a crime scene. John had desperately wanted to accompany him, but he had a late shift at the surgery, and given that he was surprised he still had a job there considering the amount of time he took off, often at little or no notice, he had reluctantly decided to give this one a miss.

He was hoping Sherlock would fill him in on the details of the night – he hadn’t gotten home before John fell asleep – so John crossed the room and sat opposite him on the sofa, brushing Sherlock’s knee with the back of his hand as he sat down to attract his attention.

“You must have been back late last night” John remarked as Sherlock glanced up at him. He hummed in acknowledgement of the statement, his gaze and attention already fixed back on the screen.

“You going to tell me about it?” asked John, slightly impatiently. It wasn’t like Sherlock to keep him in the dark about a case.

Sherlock held up two slender, white fingers. “Two minutes” he murmured, his eyes darting fiercely across the screen.

John loved watching his incredible mind at work – he could almost hear the waterfall of tangled thoughts that cascaded at breakneck speed around his brain. Sure enough, less than two minutes later, Sherlock smiled triumphantly and shut the laptop with a sharp click.

He leaned over and kissed John quickly by way of apology for ignoring him, before reaching for his phone and pressing the speed dial for Lestrade.

“The husband had a male lover, whom he was throwing considerably sums of money at to keep him quiet. The wife, who I would imagine suspected his infidelity although not the gender of the third party, discovers them together and threatens to tell everyone they knew, including his firm, by way of revenge. Furious at himself and at her, he strangles her, then shoots his male lover and makes it look like his wife was the one having the affair, and that her lover has strangled her and shot himself.”

Sherlock hung up without saying another word, and turned his attention back to John, who was staring at him in that loving, admiring way he always did when Sherlock had solved a mystery.

“You going to explain this one to me?” Asked John expectantly, his lips still burning from the kiss which had promised more to come.

Sherlock shook his head, a slow grin creeping across his face. “Boring. I can think of much more interesting things to do”.

He slid his eyes over John’s body because he knew it would make him weak. Sure enough, John gave a sharp intake of delighted breath, and pushed his hand up to clasp his fingers around the back of Sherlock’s neck, as he leaned up to press their lips together with a sudden urgency which overwhelmed them both.

John felt Sherlock smile against his mouth just before he opened his, and they became, suddenly, fiercely passionate, tongues and hands and a desperate need which John always felt and yet never managed to understand.

Sherlock’s cool fingers were playing at the waistband of John’s pyjamas, sliding them, teasingly slowly, down his hips as he lay on top of him, pushing his warm body into John, who was melting underneath him.

Sherlock dragged his mouth away from John’s, who let out a breathless gasp of pleasure as Sherlock began to kiss his forehead, his cheek, his neck, sliding his hands across the scarred chest as he slipped John’s shirt off and threw it almost impatiently onto the carpet.

John returned the favour, and in a matter of seconds they were pressed together again, skin against skin, hot and hearts beating fast.

John wanted him, needed him, and he let out a growl that was almost feral as he flipped Sherlock over in a motion that resulted in them crashing from the sofa onto the floor. Neither seemed to notice, and John kissed his way down Sherlock’s back and up again, unable to resist a not-too-gentle bite on the porcelain shoulder, which make Sherlock groan and arch his hips.

“Yes, John. Please, I... please”

Sherlock’s vocabulary was reduced to these few words, but they were all that were required. Scrabbling desperately under the sofa, Sherlock found the bottle and John leaned forwards to take it from him, whispering in his ear as he did so, words that make Sherlock gasp and writhe underneath him. He drew in his breath as the cold liquid met his flaming skin, and then let out a drawn-out moan of pleasure as John pushed into him, gripping his hips just hard enough, before slipping his hands around, and underneath.

They moved together, slowly at first, the raging fire of before had settled to a slow, aching burn. Then, as the flames began again to sear John’s insides, he rocked faster, pressing his forehead to Sherlock’s perfect back and tasting him, darting his tongue over him like a cat.

Sherlock, gasping and moving with John, reached his arm behind him to grip John’s hair, dragging his nails across his scalp, encouraging John to go deeper and harder and faster until, with a cry of Sherlock’s name, he tipped inexorably over the edge.

The sound of his own name, shouted so desperately, so lovingly, by the man that he needed most in the world sent Sherlock over with him, and they moaned together as they came.

John collapsed across Sherlock’s back, breathing heavily as he tried to reassemble the pieces of his scrambled brain, before sliding sideways to lie next to him.

Sherlock was in a similar state of un-coordination, and the pair linked their fingers as they lay together, rational human thought beginning slowly to return to them.

Eventually, Sherlock disentangled himself from John, who was still gasping for breath into the carpet, and turned towards the kitchen.

“Are there any crumpets left?”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever published fic, so feel free to leave thoughts/ constructive criticism :)


End file.
